


soft

by Rag



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia is Terrible, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Bisexual Character, Childhood Trauma, Developing Relationship, Dry Humping, Emotional self-harm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intimacy, Intrusive Thoughts, Lack of Communication, Light Bondage, M/M, Making Out, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quadrant Confusion, Secret Crush, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Unnegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-03-09 02:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13471458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rag/pseuds/Rag
Summary: “Be careful with the claws,” he says, like it’s a fucking joke.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's a magical meteorstuck au where they're over 18 years old horray
> 
> big cw for severe self-hatred, some self-directed slut-shaming stuff, sex-related trauma, communication difficulties around sex, intrusive violent thoughts around sex and intimacy, mild suicidal ideation in the pesterlogs  
> karkat is borderline traumagenic ace

Dave is so fucking gentle, and it’s scarier than being faced with the Grand Highblood himself -- you’re being dramatic, and you cringe every time the stupid, histrionic thought makes itself known in your useless thinkpan. But there’s some glimmer of truth to it. The Grand Highblood, you would understand, you would know how to react to. With Dave, with this, you’re completely frozen.

He starts out treating you roughly enough that you’re lulled into a false sense of barbed comfort. He annoys you, wrestles you, runs infuriating verbal circles arounds you while the two of you practice spar, and it’s enough that you’re tricked into seeing him as a weird, pink, horneless troll. And you make the mistake of assuming things. He’s obviously the deadliest of the remaining humans - with almost a decade of weapons practice that all the rest painfully, obviously lack - therefore, he _must_ be just like you, in every way that matters. He’s found prosthetics to make up for his lean human muscles and lack of claws, and he knows how to read others enough to keep them at a distance until he’s sure they’re safe. So you let yourself get as close to him as you would get to anyone else, none the wiser.

(Meaning: you develop every different kind of crush on him within days of your first meeting. Spilling your candy-red fluids into your palm over thoughts of him kissing you, pinning you down and fucking you; falling asleep to ridiculous, indulgent fantasies of him hugging you calm or helping you keep things sane with Terezi. Fantasies that would be pointless and stupid even _if_ he wasn’t the kind of human that will _never_ find men attractive, but he is, on top of the fact that you’re a fucking freak idiot toad who he would never bother with you if he had half a choice in the matter. At least you’re aware of that.)

You have movies in common, kind of. The two of you have different tastes, but there’s enough overlap that you both prefer arguing over what to watch next over doing jack fucking shit in your disparate rooms, alone.

He creeps closer and closer to you when you watch them. By the time a week passes, he’s comfortable with laying his head on your shoulder while Nicolas Cage and John Travolta imitate each other. Like he’s your long-established moiral, like he trusts you to not drag your claws across his throat or sink them into his abdomen, this fleshy alien you met just months before. And you let him do it partly because you’re so fucking shocked by the insane, suicidal intimacy of it, and partly because it feels good, makes you feel wanted, makes your bloodpusher race at the idea that he might like you, too, in some capacity. Maybe, just maybe, he’s not only doing this because the two of you are the only unpaired, compatibly alien beings on this godforsaken rock. You know it’s wishful thinking and you feel like a fucking moron for indulging it, but you want it so fucking bad that you can’t stop yourself. Maybe he wants to be friends with you. Maybe even something approaching moirals. A stupid fucking thought, one you’ll have to lash out of yourself with a Karkat-on-Karkat trolling session later tonight.

It’s hard to focus on the movie. Every time Dave moves, your instincts force you to watch him. As if this weak, soft animal could pin you down and choke the mutated life out of you. You start to wonder if this is a powerplay, but you know he’s not the type. He seems relaxed, and you think you know him well enough by now to know that’s not an act.

The credits roll and he sits up, stretches, grins at you, and you try not to be as stupidly, ridiculously flushed for him as you know you are. You’d fall for anything that had half a cogent brain and passed a glance in your direction, but he could be perfect for you, you know it, because you're a fucking parody of yourself. If you fill a quadrant with someone - with him - something would click into place and your life would make sense. Right? Because filling a quadrant, or filling every quadrant in the most perfect possible configuration, would make you less of a fucking cullable freak. God, you hate thinking, because you hate having to hear the fucking thoughts that creep through your disgusting, putrefying brain.

“Sweet. Let’s do it again tomorrow,” Dave says. He pauses to think about something, probably something stupid. “Do this. Not _it_. Well, we wouldn’t be doing _it_ again, because we never did it in the first place. Fuck, this is getting gay.”

And you were right, it was stupid. You should find his babbling obnoxious, not endearing. Especially when he’s babbling about shit like this. You’re falling too hard. You’re all mixed up because he’s moving so fucking fast in a direction you can’t understand.

“Shut the fuck up. And yes. Come here tomorrow and we’ll watch the Alternian version and I can show you how much better it is. Unless you want to watch it now.” Actually, shut the fuck up yourself, what the _fuck_ are you thinking? You may as well have gotten on your fucking knees and begged him to stay.

But he smiles at you, and dramatically wiggles his way back down into the couch next to you. “Pop it in, cranky.”

You have to untangle his arm from your shoulder to do so. He laughs. He tells you again how stupid your title scheme is, and when you get bantering with him about that and the next thing and the differences between the two movies, your brain actually shuts the fuck up for once.

*

\-- FutureCarcinoGenetecist started trolling PastCarcinoGenetecist --

FCG: GOOD EVENING, KARKAT.

PCG: FUCK OFF.

FCG: NO, WE HAVE VERY IMPORTANT BUSINESS TO DISCUSS.

FCG: IT’S DAVE.

FCG: AND HOW TO NOT FUCK THIS UP.

FCG: I’M HOPING AGAINST HOPE THAT YOU CAN FUCKING MANAGE THAT. DO YOU THINK YOU MIGHT POSSIBLY BE ABLE TO MANAGE THAT?

PCG: WELL, ONLY ONE FUCKING WAY TO FIND OUT, ISN’T THERE?

FCG: AND SHIT LIKE THAT MAKES ME WANT TO JUST THROW MYSELF OFF THE FUCKING ROCK RIGHT NOW. WHY BOTHER TRYING? THANKS.

FCG: GAME PLAN. COURSE OF ACTION. WE’RE NOT FUCKING THIS UP.

PCG: OKAY.

PCG: WHAT’S THE GAME PLAN, ASSHOLE?

FCG: I REMIND YOU OF YOUR PLACE IN THE WORLD. AND THEN YOU REMEMBER THAT NEXT TIME YOU GET ANY IDEAS ABOUT ~~TAKING THINGS FURTHER~~ WITH HIM.

PCG: OH, GOOD.

PCG: THIS SHOULD BE FUN.

FCG: YOU GET OFF ON IT, YOU SICK FUCK. STROKE YOUR BULGE WHILE I TELL YOU HOW WORTHLESS YOU ARE. YOU LIKE THAT? MM, IT’S SO SMALL AND WEIRD LOOKING.

PCG: YOU’RE FUCKING DISGUSTING.

FCG: YOU’RE FUCKING USELESS. AND GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR PANTS, I WAS KIDDING, THAT’S FUCKING VILE.

PCG: YOU FUCKING WISH I WAS GETTING OFF ON YOU. THAT’D MAKE A TOTAL OF ONE PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE WHO FOUND YOUR SHIT APPEALING.

FCG: THERE WE GO, THAT’S THE SPIRIT! NOW ARE YOU READY TO SHUT YOUR FUCKING GAB AND LISTEN?

PCG: I’M READY TO GET THIS OVER WITH.

FCG: OKAY. LET’S SEE, WHERE TO START…

*

About a month passes like that. You get used to it, it gets less scary. You think less and less about one of you eviscerating each other every time you make contact. And you figured out the direction he’s taking things. The two of you are human friends, “bros.” On your end, you think you do a pretty good job of masking your stupid wriggler crush on him. You know by now that revealing that would be an instant poison-laced bullet to the heart of your friendship, just like it was with Sollux and Terezi and Gamzee and Kanaya and-

You’re still pathetic and starved for something you’ll never have. You can mask that, but you can’t shut it off. You sometimes think you’re getting flushed signals from him. But of course you know better by now, and you keep everything to yourself because you’re determined to not ruin it this time.

And then he asks you if you want to make out with him.

“No strings, right. Just two dudes macking on each other. No pressure. It’s kinda gay, haha, yeah, hah, if you don’t want to that’s fine. Just testing the waters here. How are the waters, Karkat? Hot? Cold?”

You’re too fucking stunned to respond for a beat. Where the fuck do you even start? With the safer points, of course.

“Aren’t you straight? Did you not wax poetic at me numerous times, at great fucking length, how absolutely and totally impossible it would be for you to want to kiss a guy?”

He looks down and his face scrunches up a little and it’s fucking adorable. “Listen. Okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“What the fuck? No. That’s not a response. Are you straight?”

“Do straight guys want to make out with other dudes? Did you ever think the lady was perhaps protesting too much?”

“I don’t know what that means. Are you the lady? And no, the exact definition of straight is that you _don’t_ want to make out with other dudes, how fucking stupid-“

“Well, then, you’ve got an answer, next question, my question: do you want to make out or not?”

“…Yeah, okay, if you want.”

Idiot. Buffoon. You absolutely, without question, should have said no. How long are you going to be able to hide your flush crush when he’s actually kissing you? What if he kisses you once and decides it’s too gross, you’re too gross? What if it makes it weird? Why did you open yourself up to this?

But his posture lights up, and he grins, and you feel warm. You love seeing him happy (stop it, stop that), and you can’t believe he wants to kiss you. He actually wants you, like that. He wants you _like that_. It takes you a whole few moments before you rationalize the joy away into a more manageable, tempered gratitude. Because it’s not _that_ , not really. He’s a human, he doesn’t have _that_. He’s just bored and horny. And you’re bored and (lonely) horny, too, enough that you say yes to no-strings makeouts with your flush crush. Because get real, Karkat, you should be more than satisfied with this.

His lips are absurdly soft. _Wet silk_ comes to mind because you read way too many romance novels. But they’re so soft that it’s alarming, because a single swipe with your teeth could probably tear them right open without a hint of resistance and- and that’s not sexy, you’re actually getting kissed right now for the first time in your stupid fucking life and all you can think about is blood? What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?

You ground yourself. He bites your lip, and you flinch back before really feeling how completely blunt his teeth are. You didn’t believe it was possible, when you saw them in his smile, that they were as soft as they looked. Surely they were just single razor-like points, like the edge of a blade. But no, they’re nubby and grounded and fucking useless except for eating easy meat and sending shivers down your spine with the shocks of almost-pain. He scoots a little closer to you, and you feel your thighs start to touch, and your bulge wakes up to it because you’re nothing if not hysterically overzealous about everything.

He opens his mouth, and you open yours. You think your heart might explode. His tongue is weird and different from yours, it’s wetter and softer, with a weirdly large amount of give when you press yours against it. He pulls back and laughs nervously.

“Your tongue is like sandpaper, dude.”

And this is how it starts. You knew this would happen, why did you agree to this?

“Is it bad?”

“No, man, it’s just different.”

Oh.

He kisses you again, and you both stop talking for a while, and you actually manage to stop thinking. Then he flinches when he kisses a little too deep into your mouth, and you see a little spot of bright red blood well up on his tongue before he closes his mouth.

Your excitement chills. You couldn’t have imagined that his tongue was _that_ fucking soft. You didn’t even bite him.

“Fuck, ow.”

You’ve seen his blood before, in your video feed. Sometimes when the two of you would chat, he’d be stitching his flesh closed or swabbing antiseptic on it, and he’d be cagey and barbed when you demanded to know what the fuck happened to him. But that was different. You knew it was red but you didn’t account for how it would look dripping from him in person, how it would smell. It’s almost the same color as yours. Doesn’t he care who sees it? Doesn’t he care?

“Those things are fucking sharp, dude.” He darts his tongue in his mouth, swallows the blood you drew. You feel like you’re going to pass out. “Woah, you okay?”

No. “Yes.”

“You don’t look okay. You got a blood phobia?”

A blood phobia. What a fucking luxury his species is afforded, that a blood phobia is the first thing he thinks of right when candy-red blood drips from his mouth in plain sight.

“Yes.”

“Shit. Okay. Fuck. Sorry.” He puts his hand in front of his mouth, even though you could barely see it anyways. “I can be way more careful next time. You wanna just hang out and watch something instead?”

You want to be alone so you can scream, but anywhere you go, someone would hear you. He starts stroking your back, and the whiplash from quasi-matespirit to moiral makes your head reel. You can’t breathe.

“I have to go,” you say. You think you hear him say something soft and pale and placating, but you can’t think. Stupid, dangerous. As if evolutionarily this would not be _the_ most critical time to have your wits about you, when you’re blood-piqued and adrenaline-rushed. Maybe you’re defective in more ways than you knew.

It’s only when you’re alone, behind the locked door of your makeshift respiteblock, that you start to calm down and consider how badly you ruined the first thing that even approached a quadrant.

*

But he doesn’t seem upset the next day.

“Hey, you feeling better? Didn’t mean to freak you out like that.”

Like his fault. Fuck. He’s so good. He treats you so good, he would be a wonderful matespirit (stop).

“No, I acted like a fucking freak. Sorry for leaving.”

He pats the couch next to him, and you come sit next to him.

“Phobias are like that, dude. Don’t worry about it. You can’t control it. And, like, if you don’t wanna make out anymore, I’d be kind of bummed, because it was awesome before I started bleeding all over you, but it’d be fine. Whatever you’re up for.”

“You still would want to?” Even though your teeth are demonstrably sharp enough to slice into him? He can’t mean that.

“Hell yeah,” he says. “Right now, if you want.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll be extra careful with it.” He sticks out his tongue and waggles it suggestively. Idiot.

Your bulge does the thinking for you.

“Right now?”

“Oh, fuck, I- I mean, I was kind of kidding, but I’m super down if you are.”

“…How is asking me to make out with you a joke? Is that a human thing?”

“No, like, the timing could not be weirder, after that conversation, but I literally couldn’t care any less if you’re down.”

You’re down. Of course you’re down.

This time, he sits in your lap and kisses you so carefully that your blood boils. Both of your mouths are so open, so you don’t bite his fucking tongue out and leave him choking on his own blood on the floor- fuck, fuck, why, why can’t you stop thinking about this shit when he’s here, in your lap, making little sounds and breathing hard and making stupid little comments about how weird your tongue is?

“Mine? Yours is the weird one. Why the fuck is it so fucking soft?”

He grins at you like he knows something you don’t. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are so red, and he pushes his glasses up to look at you - and he’s been hiding red fucking eyes under there, of course he has, he’s going to fucking kill you, and of _course_ he’s wearing red, too, broadcasting his color to everyone, and you know it’s different for humans but his blood is just as red as yours and he just fucking wears it, shows it to you after two fucking months-

“There’s a few things I could do with it, if you want.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

He leans over and licks your ear. You flinch, it tickles, it triggers an evolutionary response that you’re about to get maimed. You force that down.

“Some fucking trick.”

You feel him as much as you hear him laugh, deep in your thinkpan, rumbling down your spine.

“There’s more.”

And then he kisses down to your neck. Your _neck_. And starts to lick at it. It feels good, and it feels like he’s going to rip your throat out. Your bulge starts to unsheathe.

“You want me to keep going?”

You let your bulge think for you again and try not to worry, because you know your skin is thick enough and his teeth are blunt enough that- that if you needed to, you could more than easily push him off of you before he did any real damage.

“Yeah.”

You grab his hips and your mind reels that you’re letting him do this, you absolute fucking slut, baring your neck for your fucking- nothing, he’s _nothing_ to you right now, he’s not in any fucking quadrant and he actually bites at your neck with those dull plant-eater teeth and you moan and your bulge thrashes, and he starts to grind his hips into yours. He pulls your hair, he grabs your hands and slides them under his shirt.

His skin is like paper, and he wants you to touch it.

“Be careful with the claws,” he says, like it’s a fucking joke. And then he gasps and grinds into you as you run your hands carefully, like he’s made of eggshells, over the freakishly soft skin covering his ribs.

Like he’s your matespirit. It’s so wrong, and your bulge is thrashing violently, and he licks at your neck as he moans.  

And then he stops.

“What’s wrong?”

“Is your dick _wiggling_?”

“What the fuck else would it be doing?”

He laughs. “You want to see?”

You can’t think. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He rustles the fabric between his legs until you can see something stiff and long sitting stagnant between them.

“I mean, it’s kinda soon to whip it out, right,” and _oh my god it sure fucking is_ , you don’t say, “but, uh, just sitting there, being a homie.”

He’s showing you his bulge. He’s showing you what his bulge looks like, right now. And you’ve seen the lump in his pants before, but it doesn’t usually look like that. Is he- is it unsheathed? Because of you?

“That- that’s your bulge.”

“It sure is, dude.” He lets go of it. “Maybe we could, like, compare notes sometime.”

And now he’s asking you if you want to fill a concupiscent quadrant- no, he’s asking you if you want to have sex, it’s different, but it’s still enough to drive you crazy. Are you even human-level friends at this point? That’s _insane_ , you’ve kissed _twice_ and he wants to have sex with you. Dave wants to have sex with you. And you want it, which is absolutely batshit crazy. Maybe this is another fun way that you’re defective, maybe your mutant blood makes you the fucking top whore of the Alternian universe. Come one, come all, this needy slut will open his legs when-the-fuck-ever for anyone who smiles at him.

“No rush on that. No pressure. You’re just really hot and shit.”

You have no idea what to say to that. You want to ask what the _fuck_ he’s thinking, but you don’t want to disturb this fragile new thing you have with him, and you don’t want him to stop wanting you, however it is that he wants you.

“Y-yeah. Maybe.”

“Sick. Is it cool if we stop here for now?”

You nod dumbly.

“Cool. That was great.”

And as you watch a movie, you calm down, because this part makes sense. This part is human-level friendship. It’s all the rest that has no map.

*

\-- FutureCarcinoGenetecist started trolling PastCarcinoGenetecist --

FCG: LET’S JUST GET ONE THING STRAIGHT, BECAUSE YOU ABSOLUTELY NEED TO HEAR THIS FROM SOMEONE ELSE.

FCG: THIS MEANS NOTHING TO HIM.

PCG: I’M AWARE.

FCG: OH MY GOD.

FCG: I WILL. NEVER. UNDERSTAND. WHY I LIE. TO MYSELF.

FCG: YOU KNOW I KNOW LITERALLY EVERYTHING YOU KNOW AND THEN A LITTLE MORE? LITERALLY EVERY THOUGHT THAT CROSSES YOUR STUPID MIND CROSSES MINE FIRST.

FCG: YOU’RE NOT AWARE AND YOU NEED TO BE REMINDED OF THIS. YOU NEED TO SEE IT FROM SOMEONE ELSE.

FCG: MAYBE YOU WOULD HAVE SOMEONE ELSE TO SEE IT FROM IF YOU’D TAKEN BETTER NOTES ON THIS SHIT BEFORE?

FCG: BUT THIS IS WHAT WE’RE WORKING WITH. YOU AND ME.

FCG: GOT IT?

PCG: CRYSTAL CLEAR, CAPTAIN SHITSPONGE.

PCG: WILL THAT BE ALL? OR DO YOU HAVE MORE SHINING WISDOM TO GLEAN ON MY UNWORTHY MIND?

\-- FutureCarcinoGenetecist blocked PastCarcinoGenetecist --

PCG: ASSHOLE.

\-- Your message to FutureCarcinoGenetecist was not delivered. Please try again later. --

*

Things progress, and you get more comfortable with them. You stop torturing yourself over wanting to ask exactly what you mean to him, and have fun with him, when your mind actually shuts up and lets you enjoy it. There’s a lot to enjoy, when that happens. You can’t get enough, you’re desperate for more, but the two of you leave your clothes on and stop before you go too far.

As he gets more confident, he flips between hair pulling and hand-holding and neck-biting and grinding up against your bulge. And you learn where to touch him - those weird, huge tabs of skin on his chest are especially fun, make him grasp your shoulder and gasp when you play with them (gently, so fucking gently, trying not to think how easy it could be to rip them off). He seems to really, really like when you sit on his lap and take control of the pace, so you tend to do that more. You want to be perfect for him.

Today, he’s on top, and the two of you are going maybe a little farther than usual. And he’s playing with your grubscars as he rocks his bulge against yours and kissing you carefully and you feel so completely overwhelmed and good-

You almost, almost spill in your fucking pants before your apparently defective alarm bells start ringing that you’re going to come, as in, release your fluids, right here, on the couch, and there’s no way you won’t stain your pants with it, and you _know_ he won’t care, but do you really _know_ that? You don’t, you can’t possibly know that, and someone else could see.

“Stop!”

He reels back and blinks the sex-haze out of his eyes.

“Fuck, you okay?”

You bite your lip and close your eyes tight, concentrating. You still feel him pressing against your bulge.

“Get off. Right now.”

He slides off you.

“Karkat?”

He sounds worried, which helps slow your bulge the fuck down. You open your eyes and breathe. The danger has passed.

“I didn’t want to… you know.”

“What?”

“Come in my fucking pants like a wriggler?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Fuck, okay. That’s hot. But, uh, yeah. I mean, I’d love to see that sometime if you want to-“

Fuck. Fuck-

“Stop.”

“Got it.”

You stare at him and try to think. The drones are gone. Maybe you could- you should probably tell him why. But you open your mouth and nothing comes out.

“Karkat?”

“It would be really, _really_ fucking bad if I pailed in front of you.”

“Why?”

And you’re back to not talking for a while. He sits down next to you. The awkward conversation position, where you don’t have to look into his eyes as you speak. That helps.

“The… color.”

“Oh, yeah, you guys are color coded. So your jizz would be grey? That’s kinda weird, but whatever, you’re an alien, I figured some shit would be weird.”

“It’s not… it’s not grey.”

Too much, way too much, you already want to die because you’re going to get culled for this, eight fucking sweeps of avoiding this conversation because your life depended on it and now you’re spilling it for the first fucking person who shows you any attention- because he’s a human, the drones are gone, what are you afraid of?

“Oh, what? Why aren’t you color coded like everyone else?”

“Maybe because I think the caste system is fucking stupid! And I want no fucking part in it and I see no reason to broadcast my rank like it’s something to brag about!”

“So, uh. It’s probably not a great color to have, is it.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Fuck, you’re a dick, why the fuck- you were just so fucking angry that you’re that fucking transparent, but what the fuck did Dave do to deserve that from you, fuck-

“You can tell me, dude. I won’t tell anyone.”

“You won’t?”

“No, that’d be such a fucking dick move, are you serious? Why the hell would I tell anyone that? Especially when you’re so messed up about it. That’d be bogus as hell, I’d be the fuckin’ worst.”

You know you’re going to tell him, because you’ve come this far and the drones are annihilated and it’s all fine and you’re being a idiot for keeping it away from _him_ , a human, who you’re human-friends with, who you’re super fucking flushed for, who you spend most of your time with, who wants to fuck you, eventually.

“…red.”

“Oh, shit, like Aradia. Yeah, she’s lowest on the totem pole, right? I can see why you’d want-“

“Stop.” He stops. “No.”

“What?”

“Aradia is maroon. I’m red.” You’re almost whispering, which is fucking ridiculous. Who’s going to hear? Who’s going to care? Who hasn’t had suspicions for years already?

“Oh.” He thinks on that. “Who else is red?”

“No one. Literally fucking no one. It’s not a valid hemospectrum color. Did I not tell you about the fucking hemospectrum? We’ve had this talk before!”

“Forgive me for not memorizing something a stranger told me seven years ago that I thought was complete bugfuck nonsense at the time.”

“…Fuck off. Sorry.”

You’re kind of relieved. You’re mostly terrified. All it takes is one word to undo the agonized work of eight sweeps. You can trust him, maybe, probably, if for no other reason than there’s logically no harm to come even if he betrays you at this point.

Or maybe you’re such a fucking slut that you’d take that risk just to get laid?

“But you have it. How is it not on the spectrum?”

“Because something went horrifically fucking wrong when my genes were scrambled together and I’m fucking red! I don’t belong in the spectrum!”

“…Wait, red like mine?”

“Yes.”

“Woah, weird.”

“Shut the-“

“Fuck, sorry, just, like, weird compared to, uh, what I already knew about trolls? So, what do red trolls do?”

You know he’s trying to detract you from the half-insult, and you let him.

“They get fucking culled so that they don’t contribute their freak mutant genes to the next generation.”

His mouth drops open. “Holy shit. Woah. Okay. Is that, like, a concern right now?”

You take a deep breath. You don’t know when you started breathing so hard. “No. No it’s not. Because Alternia is dead.”

“Jesus. Fuck, I’m sorry, dude. That sucks so fucking bad.”

“Now don’t fucking tell me that I should wear my freak mutant color on my shirt because-“

“No, why the fuck would I- do you really think I’m that much of a dick, dude?”

He sounds hurt. You’re awful. You can’t stop hurting people even as you’re opening up your skin and showing them your organs. “…Sorry. I’m being a fucking idiot. Fuck.”

“No, it’s…” he trails off. “Am I- have you told anyone else?”

 _Lie. Lie._ “No.” _Useless._

“Shit.” He wraps his arms around you, and you’re terrified for a moment before you realize it’s a hug, not an effort to detain you and turn you in. “Well, thanks for, uh, telling me. That’s really heavy shit. It probably really fucking sucked for the last 10 years or whatever, right?”

You swallow and make yourself find his arms around you comforting instead of unnerving. Human hugs are different, and they tend to make you feel trapped and claustrophobic. But sometimes they’re comforting. They need to be comforting now.

“So, yeah, definitely no pressure to pull your thing out if it’s gonna freak you out. If that needed to be said. Should go without saying, right.”

It didn’t. “Thanks. I… appreciate it.” You really do, but being this open about _this_ of all things is terrifying. But you probably shouldn’t ask to be alone right now.

He knows your blood color and he’s not leaving you. He knows your blood color and he’s not turning you in. He knows your blood color and he won’t tell anyone. You know it’d be this way, but you didn’t believe it, but it’s actually happening, and you’re completely overwhelmed. You hug him back.

“You wanna just hang out for a while?”

“Yeah.”

You watch movies, and cuddle closer than you’ve ever cuddled before. Eventually it starts to feel comforting instead of terrifying to be this close to him, knowing that he knows.

You don’t deserve a friend like him, he’s too good. But you’re selfish enough to keep him company anyways. You’re so fucking happy with whatever powers that be, chaotic or ordered, that allowed any of this to happen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for panic attack during sex, unnegotiated kink, trauma around sex
> 
> also i feel the need to explain that im not actually writing this fast im just polishing up and publishing stuff ive been sitting on for a while

He stops kissing you altogether. You didn’t make a ton of it the first night, it made sense. Now it’s day three and he’s done nothing more than give you a goodbye peck on the cheek before going back to his chamber for the night. It’s like you’re a geriatric matespirit couple who can’t produce a slurry anymore.

On night two, he asked you if you wanted to cuddle and talk about some of that stuff from the other night. _You know, like, not to push. But it’s on the table. Just sitting there like a homie, not yelling or anything_. You almost started crying at the clear fucking quadrant vacillation that screamed _I realized that you’re just not fuckable but I’m still red for you,_ until you remembered he doesn’t do quadrants. You just took a deep breath and thanked him as politely as you could manage. Then you told the homie to get the fuck off the table, there are perfectly good chairs to sit in.

You know exactly why he’s treating you so different. It boils down to several reasons, each as important as the last. You’re a freak. You’re overdramatic. You’re disgusting. You have a fuckton of moronic, self-imposed baggage that’s going to get in the way of your disgusting primal junk boogey every time you attempt it. You don’t blame him. You’d do the exact same thing if you were presented with your particular brand of bullshit.

You know that, you understand that, and you’re still vibrating out of your skin. You want more. You want to know exactly where you sit with him, and you want the place he sits to be next to you, and you want him to reassure you that he’ll stay there.

Remember when you were content to spend time with him? Before you got to be such a needy bitch? Now you’re vibrating out of your fucking chassis because can’t stand not kissing him for a few days. Greedy. Panicking. Mostly greedy. You send yourself a few detailed treatises about why you should be happy with the current status quo. Honestly, truly, without a shred of overdramatic martyr-complex self-aggrandizing, you should be glad he didn’t dump you on your ass.

You try not to open your fat fucking gab about wanting more more more, but of course you can’t help it. Your will is weaker than a wiggler’s dumb fucking grublegs.

“Why did we stop doing shit?”

He looks at you blankly. Human Rambo yells on the TV screen and fires a machine gun.

“What?”

“Like…” You try to put what you want into words. _Dave, I want you to kiss me and rub your bulge on me like a fucking wordless animal. And then hug me and-_ and you can’t put the rest into words, even in your own mind. You just get a few mindpicture flashes of him holding you in bed for hours and kissing your temple and your horns, making you feel safe and loved. You disgust yourself. Note to self, never fucking think about what you want from him again. “Fucking- you know, fuck, from before we… talked about the shit.”

“Oooh.” You feel relieved and guilty that he manages to read coherent meaning into your vapid nonsense. Where do you get off, making him waste time and energy decoding your pediatric horseshit like it’s the world’s lamest cereal box riddle? “Shit, dude, no. I was just waiting for you. Do you want to?”

You get a big fat wave of flushed shit in your thoracic cavity. Holy shit. He was waiting for you. He pities your situation and put his needs on hold for you. Does he have any fucking _idea_ what that means to you?

You also get a big fat wave of hate for yourself. Of course you got whipped into a fucking frenzy over nothing. Every thought you’ve had in the last week has been the stupidest thing you’ve ever thought. You’re so bad at this. Fuck, you need to pull your head out of your asshole to have this conversation.

“No. I do if you do.”

“Thank fucking god, dude, that shit is fun as hell. And, uh, we can take it way slower if you want, too, ‘cuz it was kinda super fucking fast-”

You know it’s pathetic and gross, but you climb into his lap. Your overeager bulge starts to unsheathe the second you hear him gasp.

“Oh, shit, okay then, fast is good too, okay, _yes,_ more of this yesterday, please, get some time travel up in th-“

You kiss him quiet. You’re (both, apparently) so starved for it that things get intense much quicker than usual. He makes you feel so fucking confused sometimes. You’re burning red from how he waited for you, and now you’re twinging pitch from the fact that he’d just ramble to himself into tomorrow before fucking kissing you. You want to fuck him a little too hard for that and make him ache for days. Humans don’t have pitch, though. You’d just be hurting him. The thought disturbs you. You shift your focus to the strange, alien taste and feel of his tongue and the way it just gives under yours. The heat of his legs under you and the weight of his hands on your waist.

His hands start to creep up, feeling your skin, and it all goes from overwhelming to completely too fucking much. You gently grab them and pin them down at his sides. Before you can start to spiral about what an awful, presumptuous asshole you are, he gasps.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” he says.

You keep your grip stead as you kiss him more. It’s no time at all before you feel his bulge unsheathe, way faster than usual. He grinds up ineffectively against you, such tiny movements that you don’t know if he knows he’s doing it. You want so badly to make him feel good, to see him come, and you’re fucking terrified of ruining him. He starts to really struggle against your hold, then pulls back. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are wet.

This is safe, mostly, but it’s feels like it’s toeing the line of something that isn’t.

“Fuck, Karkat.”

“Should I let go?” you ask. You really should have asked before you did it. It’s standard pitch, and humans don’t have pitch, what were you thinking? Nothing. That’s what. Fucking nothing. You let go, horrified.

“No. Fuck, come back. I mean, am I fucked up? This is so fucked up.”

He’s rambling. You let him continue. You could stop him again. You could kiss him and force him to shut up. It seems like he’d like that. He can’t know how pitch that is, can he? He’s just, what did he call it, kinky? You don’t know why that makes you as excited as it does. He can’t break free, you’re so much stronger than him, and he _likes_ that. Deviant.

You’re getting ideas. Amazingly, most of them aren’t about accidentally killing him. Maybe talking it out that one time really did just get the stupid shit off your chest. And maybe, now, you can just go from here.

“If you’re fucked up, I’m worse.”

“Wait, though,” he says quietly. Your gut wrenches at his tone. He’s so weak and helpless, and he’s just giving that to you. He trusts you with that. “You’ll stop if I ask, right?”

Your mind works rapidfire to slot that into a human context, instead of the outrageously flushed-caliginous quadrant play one you default to. “Yeah, of fucking course I will.”

“Then it’s cool. Super fucking cool.”

You hold him down again, and he gasps. He seems really, really worked up, and you wonder if he might spill in his pants. You wonder what it looks like. You’ve felt it so many times against your bulge and you can’t fathom the shape of it. Maybe today. It’s so soon, but, maybe.

You kiss him and rock your hips against his. He struggles against your grip. He’s into it, you’re safe, it’s fun, until your brain supplies you with the thought that if it were _you_ having your movement restricted, and one of Condescension’s drones happened to see you, and you couldn’t move, and you couldn’t get away… Your bulge almost fucking crawls into your body until you hear Dave make a little sound in his throat. And remember that you’re here, that’s over, he’s not going to care about your freak red.

He feels good. He’s soft and vulnerable and _trusts_ you. Your chest hurts with pity and you feel guilty for pushing that on him without his consent. He tries to rock his hips against yours, but he has absolutely no leverage to work with.

You consider asking what he wants, but you’re too chickenshit. You want to ask him things. In your books, the characters always talked. You know what you’d say. Like, _do you like that, you little trollop?_ Or, _you’d look even better between my legs, lowblood._ Well, you’d drop the lowblood. If you were to say something like this. But you won’t because there’s no chance it won’t sound completely ridiculous.

You keep kissing him instead, until it’s wet and desperate and your hands feel like they’re burning from not touching him. He wriggles against you. You can almost feel his hands on you, like you know he wants. He makes a mutedly desperate sound and finally pulls away. You can see his eyes through the shades when you’re this close, and they look dazed. He fucking reeks of pheromones.

“Dude. Please. Something else.”

You swallow.

“What?”

“Literally anything. I’m in hell. Sexy hell but it’s still hell.”

You rack your brain for what he wants. Well, you know what he wants. What he wants could be seen from fucking space right now. You’re getting hung up on the details. Everything seems impossibly complicated. You let go of his hands and he immediately starts running them up your skin, inside your shirt, over your grubscars. You moan sharply.

“Fuck, yeah,” he says. “These are basically troll nipples, right?”

“No, they’re fucking-“ you stop talking as he pushes you back, on your back. He crowds over you and you’re on your back (it’s fine, he’s human, you trust him). And he flicks them again. Your bulge is making a wet, sticky mess in your pants.

“Go on?”

“Fuck off.”

He kisses you again. The two of you adjust yourself so that he’s between your fucking legs. Almost like you’re pailing, except that you have literally all of your clothes still on. Then he’s running one of his hands down, down, down, holy shit, past your boxers, holy _shit_.

“Can I, uh?”

You nod. Yes. Good idea. Maybe. Probably? If you leave your clothes on you don’t have to see it.

He slides his hand farther down and you arch against him.

“Woah.”

His fucking, fingers, on your bulge. You’re short-circuiting. You never imagined it would feel so different when it was someone else’s hand. It’s almost too much, it almost hurts, but it just shivers and sparks through your blood.

“You’re so wet, holy shit.”

“Shut up! What the fuck!”

“You good?”

You nod and try to breathe. He’s touching your fucking bulge and it’s okay, it’s safe.

His fingers trail up and then down, down, exploring you. He draws closer and closer to your nook. Is he going to touch that, too? Holy shit. His fingers are fucking fire on your skin and your bloodpusher feels like it’s going to explode. You make a truly pitiable sound when his finger dips in just the slightest bit.

“Woah. Woah. Is this … nook, right.”

“What the fuck else would it be,” you mumble. You feel so fucking naked. Your boxers dig into your hip from where he’s pushing them up. You can feel his bulge, hard and immobile, pushing against your thigh. You grip the couch hard so that you don’t accidentally tear into his skin. You don’t trust yourself.

He gently starts to push his fingertip inside of you, so insanely fucking gentle that you want to scream.

“Can I-“

“ _Yes_ , just fucking _do_ it!”

He does it, just one finger, deep inside of you. Your hips rock against him and your eyes roll back, it’s so alien and weird and good. You try not to think about how fucking red his finger will be when he inevitably pulls it out. Karkat Vantas and his dangerous jizz. God. Dave pulls your shirt up and kisses your chest, which is weird, but it’s hot because he’s doing it. Every time his finger pushes back into you, you shudder. You think you can feel every miniscule drag of the raised skin on his fingerprints from where he slowly fucks it in and out of your nook, and it sparkles through your nerves. You’re letting him do this. This is fine, and you’re not panicking, and you’re letting him do this and it feels really fucking good. You focus on the feelings and remind yourself that it’s safe now, this is safe and you want it.

“You know, we don’t have to, like,” he says quietly. “You know?”

“What.”

“Like, tell me if this is too fast, right?”

“ _What_?” you demand. Your pusher races, what in _god’s_ name could be so fast it’s making him blush?

“Can I, uh,” he trails off and clears his throat. “Eat you out? I really want to.”

You have no idea what that is, but it sounds gross. His finger stills inside of you and you’re annoyed that the slow, burning sensation fades. “What?”

“What, what?”

“No, shithead, what does that mean?”

“Oh. Uh, like, polishing your knob, but for your troll poon?”

“Never call it that again, and _please_ , in fucking English this time.” You think you’re going to explode from nerves or blackglobes before you get an answer out of him.

“You know, like, sucking you off? Licking your junk.” He slides his fingers along your nook again, and you realize he’s illustrating exactly where he’d put his fucking _mouth_.

Your blood runs cold.

You can’t think. That’s so fucked up. That is _so_ fucked up. You barely know him, you can’t just- you can’t just do that. Why would he even ask?

“Woah, okay, that looks like a no.” He pulls his finger out of you and yes, it’s red, it’s covered fucking gross soft translucent red, and he stares at it before forcing himself to look away. “It’s cool, we can just-“

“I’m sorry,” you start, and oh my _god_ you’re pathetic. You sit up and push him away. “No. I can’t.”

“Hey, dude, it’s fine-“

“We can’t do that.”

“Karkat, yo, that’s fine, it was really fast-“

His pity words are too kind and soft and like you’re acting like a fucking tantruming wriggler. You’re too emotional. You can’t think.

“I have to go.”

\---

He doesn’t follow you.

\---

What better way to decompress than yell at yourself? God knows that if you just never stop talking to someone, even yourself, you never have to consider your thoughts or actions for even a minute! You’re a fucking philosopher, really.

FCG: HE’S GOING TO LEAVE BECAUSE YOU’RE FUCKED UP.

PCG: I KNOW.

FCG: FUCKING BRAINSTORM, JACKASS. WORK WITH ME.

PCG: WHAT’S THE POINT.

FCG: I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING THERAPIST. BRAINSTORM SOLUTIONS WITH ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

PCG: FUCK OFF.

PCG: HOW FAR IN THE FUTURE ARE YOU? AND YOU’VE STILL GOT NO FUCKING IDEAS? THIS BODES WELL.

FCG: MAYBE I WANTED SOME FUCKING OUTSIDE PERSPECTIVE! FUCK OFF! YOU FUCKING MORON! IT’S FUCKING UNFATHOMABLE HOW STUPID YOU ARE!

PCG: OUTSIDE PERSPECTIVE. FROM YOURSELF. I’M SUCH A FUCKING GENIUS IN TWO HOURS.

FCG: 10 MINUTES, DIPSHIT.

PCG: HAHAHA COULDN’T EVEN BE ALONE THAT LONG

FCG: HAHAHA YOU’RE GOING TO DIE ALONE IF YOU DON’T FIGURE THIS SHIT OUT SOON

FCG: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? IS THIS FUNNY TO YOU? IS THIS FUN?

FCG: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER IMMEDIATELY

PCG: I HAVE FUCKING NOTHING, OKAY? I HAVE SQUAT FUCKING NOTHING

FCG: DON’T

FCG: DON’T EVEN START

FCG: WITH THE LONG-WINDED METAPHOR

FCG: ABOUT HOW LITTLE IDEA YOU HAVE OF HOW TO FIX THIS

FCG: DELETE IT

FCG: IT’S A WASTE OF TIME

FCG: WHY AM I FUCKING DOING THIS

FCG: FUCK YOU, FUCK OFF, I HAVE BETTER SHIT TO BE DOING

PCG: WHAT?

\-- FCG logged off --

PCG: HOLY SHIT, WHAT?

PCG: DID YOU JUST REWRITE THE FUCKING TIME SCRIPT, DIPSHIT?

PCG: GOD. CAN’T IMAGINE THAT’LL FUCK ANYTHING UP. NO, THAT SOUNDS LIKE A GREAT IDEA. FUCK YOU. YOU PROFOUNDLY MORONIC NOOKSUCK.

\---

Fuck past you. Past you is a fucking idiot. Past you thinks that you should just wait this out, and Dave is going to roll around tomorrow like nothing happened. Past you just wants to wank into a hole about how terrible you are. Past you cares more about what a worthless piece of trash you are than he does about actually fucking trying to fix anything ever. _Past_ you is fucking worthless for everything except being the worst kismesis you could ask for. You should block his fucking ID. You can do that later. You have to clear this shit up as soon as possible.

It’s stupid to hope, but you’re a fucking idiot romantic and you read way too many happy endings. Maybe you can figure something out.

\---

CG: DAVE

CG: I’M SORRY

TG: hey man it happens

TG: i mean it was awkward and like

TG: i cant think of a chill way to ask this so sorry in advance for puking the delicate lace all over you but

TG: do you actually like doing shit with me or like

TG: i mean bc we really dont have to do that stuff if it freaks you out

You try to find the words to respond, but it never even crossed your fucking mind that you didn’t have to do that with him. Never. You wanted it, and after he asked you for it, you took it for granted that he’d leave you if you stopped. Because clearly, that’s the primary thing he wanted from you. Is that not the primary thing he wants from you? Then what _does_ he want from you?

TG: i mean its fun in theory right

TG: its also fun in practice

TG: but only when youre not freaking out

TG: and the thing is

TG: youre usually freaking out

TG: were hitting two for two now and thats not a trend im super into continuing

TG: thats the reality of the situation

TG: this is earth 616 and maybe theres some 1287 bullshit where youre chill about but thats not where were at

TG: if youre not into it thats literally the worst and im really not into it because its fucked up

TG: idk dude i dont want to be a huge asshole like that like im kind of freaked out right now but not in a lame way right just like

TG: im really not into it if its gonna send you into fits of dissociative panic for reasons i can probably guess at maybe

TG: like no offense but thats not like the absolute best on my end either so actually

TG: can we just stop altogether

TG: like me asking you/telling you can we just table that now or forever or something

Your vision starts to swim. You’re panicking. You were thinking so much about yourself that you never even considered him. And how much you’re fucking him up with this shit. You’re fucking ruining him. What if he’s traumatized because of you? Because you couldn’t just tell him you weren’t ready?

His red text continues to barf all over the screen as you try to calm down.

TG: like thats my foot in the ground all fuckin stompy and shit like ok kiddos no more fuckin on my watch

TG: very well, omnipresent fuckwatcher. no more fuckin on your watch

TG: you ever think about where that phrase came from

TG: i bet you got all kinds of phrases like that like ‘faster than an old boot in the sun’

TG: oh shit but where was the gratuitous grub reference. cant skip that

TG: faster than an old grub’s boot in the sun

CG: GRUBS DON’T WEAR FUCKING BOOTS

TG: hey karkat

TG: so

TG: thoughts

CG: I’M SORRY JUST

CG: A SECOND

TG: oh shit dude yeah no problem

TG: are you ok

CG: I’M SORRY

CG: I SHOULD HAVE REALIZED THAT WOULD SUCK FOR YOU TOO

How did you not. Literally, how the fuck did you not. Did you _ever_ really think about what he thought about this? Did you ever think to ask instead of passively assume? No. Never.

He responds.

TG: idk man nah like were both figuring stuff out right like

TG: theres a 0% chance youre not a virgin right

TG: how were you supposed to know

He’s not wrong. You still feel like trash.

CG: OKAY

TG: and unfortunately the virgin thing will continue to be a thing like

TG: idk dude im open to suggestions but i dont wanna boink you into another panic attack ever again

CG: NOT DOING STUFF LIKE THAT FOR A WHILE SOUNDS SMART

TG: ok cool

CG: SORRY FOR BEING SUCH A FUCKING WEIRDO

CG: I JUST

CG: TO EXPLAIN

CG: NEVERMIND

TG: ?

CG: I ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT

CG: WHEN IT CAME TIME TO CONTRIBUTE

CG: I’D BE KILLED THE SECOND MY BULGE WRIGGLED OUT

CG: IF I MADE IT THAT FAR BEFORE SOMEONE TURNED ME IN

TG: holy shit

TG: no karkat holy shit thats probably the worst shit ive ever fucking heard and ive heard some shit

TG: like

TG: are you okay

CG:  YEAH

TG: like in general

CG: YEAH I’M FINE

TG: are you sure

CG: LISTEN

CG: NEW SUBJECT

TG: got it

CG: BUT

CG: THANK YOU FOR THIS

TG: yeah

TG: you too dude

TG: (is that really a new subject tho my dude)

CG: CRAM IT

TG: its crammed

TG: so fucking far up there dude

TG: oh god its really in there

TG: youre gonna have to take me to a hospital to get it out

CG: DO YOU STILL WANT TO WATCH SOMETHING TOMORROW

You make yourself ask. You brace yourself for the first of a trail of _oh no im busy._

TG: oh absolutely yeah its fun as hell

TG: this is kinda gay but can we still like cuddle and shit or is that gonna freak you out because its nice but again my last possible mission is to freak you out

CG: ARE YOU SERIOUSLY GETTING ON THE TO GAY OR NOT TO GAY TRAIN RIGHT NOW? REALLY?

CG: IN THIS CONVERSATION?

CG: RIGHT NOW?

TG: listen

<

TG: listen

TG: its an intricate earth thing you wouldnt understand

TG: im insulted, you insult my culture

CG: MY HUMBLEST APOLOGIES.

You type something meaner, then delete it. You don’t actually want to punish him for asking to fucking pile with the wrong words. Why do you resort to being a dick any time someone’s too nice to you?

You cannot fucking believe him. That not only does he want to still hang out with you, but he wants to hang out with you with a 0% chance of sex, and he wants to cuddle with you. What the fuck _is_ he.

TG: anyways don’t change the subject

CG: YEAH

CG: QUASI-PILE STUFF IS STILL COOL

TG: sick

Your bloodpusher fucking explodes, metaphorically.

TG: ngl i have no idea why you just called it a quasi-pile but im gonna ask you to explain your weird alien words to me tomorrow

CG: YEAH, I’LL EXPLAIN IT TOMORROW. AND REMEMBER I SAID QUASI. IT’S NOWHERE NEAR A FULL, ESTABLISHED PILE SITUATION.

TG: im sure that is completely true and i also have literally no context for it

CG: IT WOULD TAKE A WHILE TO EXPLAIN

TG: sick sounds like a job for next time

TG: ill save your poor sweet hands

TG: how do you type so fucking much with those claws btw

TG: youre gonna have to show me

CG: YEAH I CAN SHOW YOU IT’S REALLY NOT HARD OR INTERESTING AT ALL

\---

You talk for a longass time until finally closing out to go to bed. Within 20 minutes, you hear a knock on your door.

“Hey, dude,” he says.

You let him in.

“Can we, like, hug it out?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, okay.”

He hugs you tightly, and you wrap your arms around him.

“Cool shit.”

You don’t talk about it. You just hug for a while, and then he leaves. He snaps his fingers and does that cheesy finger gun point thing on his way out, and it’s forced.

You feel terrible. He doesn’t do shit like this. You know him well enough to know he’s really freaked out. You _have_ to do better about this stuff.

\---

The two of you hang out the next day. It’s kind of awkward at first, and then he demands to know what the hell all that weird pile shit was about. And if there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s explaining quadrants. He’s a fucking master of pale lore by the time you’re done with him. Well, close enough.

He sits really close to you during the shitty movie. He doesn’t make any moves. He actually doesn’t make any moves towards you all night. And you don’t talk about the weird stuff. It’s like it was before. Except now, it feels a little lighter, somehow. Despite dropping the heaviest shit right on his lap, it feels lighter. It’s insane. You’re in such fucking awe that he’s still here. Lap full of your reeking shit, and he still wants to watch movies and hear about your dead world. It’s… really nice.

\---

Maybe the two of you will pick that stuff up again later. You still have dreams about it sometimes. You wake up with your globes painfully full and the sounds he made in your ear, the phantom heat of his body. 

But maybe you won’t.

You really want to be able to do it for him, with him, and you want to be the kind of (normal) troll who can just fucking enjoy it. But the cost of pushing yourself too hard, too fast is high enough to stop you from rushing into it before you’re ready. You don’t want to do that to him again.

And as shit continues to be okay with him, week after week, just like this, hanging out and hugging without bumping uglies, you start to accept that he really might be fine with it. Maybe you can be, too. Maybe you really are too fucked up to pail. Maybe that’s one more way that you’re a freak. But maybe that’s not the end of the fucking world.

It’s a big fucking plate of reeking maybes, isn’t it. You’ll just have to fucking wait and see.


End file.
